Take 1

Our homework this week was to go to an Arabic grocery store and buy oranges – burtuqaal. Without speaking any English.

Of course I waited until the last possible evening to complete this task. It’s just my way.

All week I practiced what I would say, using different phrases and variations, just in case the dialogue didn’t go like the workbook predicted it would. Italicized text indicates Arabic.

Hi. How are you? I’d like an orange. Do you have oranges? Excuse me, oranges are here? God willing, do you sell oranges? Thank you. Thank you very much. Thank you, praise God.

I walked to a corner store where I thought I had overheard Arabic before. And where there was a bin of oranges in the doorway.

Good evening.

Blank stare.

Good evening. Do you have oranges?

She turns to her husband/business partner. She pokes him and points to me.

Do you have oranges?

Burtuqaal?

Yes. Oranges.

Not here. Walgreen’s. They have burtuqaal. Two blocks down and on the right.

What in the world did he think I was asking for? I walked out. I repeated the words over and over in my head. Oh. My. God. He thought I was asking for birth control.

Take 2

I walked down to the Tenderloin thinking I would find an Arabic grocery store fairly quickly. Probably not the best idea on a dark night, walking alone in a red leather jacket.

Hey, beautiful…

Sss! Sss!

Click, click, click with tongues in cheek.

Right here, baby, I got what you want.

I ducked into the first store I saw with Arabic writing in the window. The clerk was Asian. Thought I’d give it a try anyway. After all, I had met several Arabic-speaking Koreans when I lived in Korea.

Good evening.

Blank stare.

Next.

Take 3

I continued walking, though this time away from the Tenderloin. Maybe in Russian Hill?

I spotted a sign in Arabic for a pizza parlor. Dare I try? It was a stretch. But look! Right next door. An Arabic deli and grocery.

Good evening.

Good evening. How are you?

Fine. Thank God. How are you?

Good.

Do you have oranges?

He pointed to a bin of shriveled oranges. The other man clucked. No, no, no. He ran to the back of the store.

No fresh ones. Sorry.

I picked up an orange. How much for one?

No, no, no. Free. Take as many as you’d like.

Thank you.

You’re welcome.

Peace be with you.

One hour, 18 city blocks, and 2 puckered oranges later. Success.

We decided to get her a week of personal chef services. Here she was, a good friend, almost 8 months pregnant, and here we were, four non-mothers, not really wanting to venture to Baby’s R Us for the latest in onesies, twosies, or whatever else is in fashion for babies at the moment.

I called the chef and left a message. Yes, it was somewhat last minute. I called on Thursday; we wanted to give her the gift certificate on Sunday. I called again on Friday, requesting a call back at either work or home. No reply. We made our own homemade gift certificate, presented it to our friend, and explained the real one was forthcoming.

Chef Jennifer had come highly recommended. A week went by. I called again. No reply. Slightly perturbed, I left a final message to the extent that I wanted to purchase her services but couldn’t because she wouldn’t return my calls.

I returned from my meeting to a red light illuminated on my phone at work. Two messages from Chef Jennifer. I didn’t have time to return her call before leaving for the day.

I arrived home. “You have 5 new messages…” blinked the display screen on my answering machine. Chef Jennifer. Chef Jennifer. Chef Jennifer. Chef Jennifer. Chef Jennifer.

“Hi, Ms. McLeese. Just calling to check in. I guess you’re not there. I’ll call back in an hour.”

Is this really someone I should send to a friend’s home?

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” mused the cab driver as I quite ungracefully entered with my arms full of bags.

“Doing a little Christmas shopping. Not quite finished.”

“Me, well, I’ve got it down. I block off three hours for shopping. And I go. Whatever don’t get bought in that three hours, don’t get given.”

I laughed.

“Then I block off another three hours. That’s for the celebration. Three hours for dinner, gift giving, that’s it. Three hours up. Christmas’ over.”

It’s sure to be a good one. Porkchop Express‘ holiday show.

Saturday night, December 11th, 8:00 PM

Tongue & Groove

Van Ness at Union, 21 and over

See you there.

He was resplendent. He was dressed from tiara to toe in white, accented by a platinum wig and silver sparkles. His floor length tulle skirt floated as he spun. His tight bodice bedecked with ribbons highlighted his slender torso. We oohed and aahed from afar. “He was here last year.” “What a beautiful fairy.” “No, he’s the Snow Queen.”

We were at The Dance-Along Nutcracker, a spectacular celebration where children and adults alike can don their best tutus and pirouette to Tschaikovsky’s familiar holiday tunes.

After two hours of dancing and leaping and twirling, I scurried across Yerba Buena Gardens to pick up a couple of quick holiday gifts. As I was leaving the Metreon, I found myself behind a white haired lady in a navy suit and matching pumps, her fat ankles opaqued by thick, supposedly nude hose. She was treating her six-year old granddaughter to a holiday excursion in the city.

“Look, dear, a bride,” she said in her frail, cracking voice. The little one swung her head this way and that, not seeing.

“Over there, dear, see? Aren’t weddings just wonderful? Look how pretty the bride is.”

I followed her gaze. There, in all his beauty, walked the Snow Queen with his tuxedoed King.

He picked me up just shy of 7:30 am. We had decided at the last minute to race in the Run To The Far Side. Well, he hadn’t. Decided last minute. I had. At about 11:30 last night I called him and said I’d do it.

On the way to the park I was getting myself organized. Money, id, and chapstick in my runner’s pocket in the center back of my shorts, velcroed shut snugly. Keys. Keys. What to do with the keys? I didn’t want to put them in my pocket. I’d tie them to my shoelaces. That would work.

I unlaced my shoelace and began to tie my keys to the lace. “Hmmm. But if I put them so far down I’ll have to unlace so much of my shoe just to get back into my building when I’m finished. That won’t be very convenient. But I don’t want them too close to the tie, because then they may inadvertently fall off. Maybe it’s better if they’re not laced at all. I’ll slip the ring through one of the loops on the shoe. That’s what I’ll do.”

He turned to me. “Lori!”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Did you just have an entire discourse about where to tie your keys?”

I thought for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“And you had it out loud?”

I thought again. “Yeah. I did. But don’t worry, everything’s taken care of now.”

I noticed the smell about a couple of weeks ago. I searched around the apartment, but couldn’t figure out what it was. It was familiar. Yes, it was. But what was it? Each day when I arrived home, nostrils untainted, I sniffed. And I sniffed. What was it? Cardboard? Mold? Wetness. That’s what is was. Wetness. But where?

I was determined to find the source of the smell. I cleaned. I scrubbed. I Cloroxed. I Lysoled. Where was it coming from? The kitchen, yes. But where? The recycling? No. The trash? No. Finally, I found it. The shelves. The knickknack shelves that daddy and I had created from the broom nook. The shelves were pushed out, the back wall buckled from moisture. That’s what the smell was, wet particle board. Yuck.

I called my landlady and she agreed, yes, it was not good. A couple of days later the plumber came. He tried to take out the affected wood and ended up knocking a hole through the wall in between my kitchen and my living room. The plaster just collapsed, weak from the moisture that had seeped through the walls.

She wasn’t comfortable with him. She wanted a second opinion. I returned home the next day to two holes in my ceiling and five messages on my answering machine. As I listened to the messages, all from my landlady, in each one the anxiety building, I laughed. This truly was comic.

Message 1: “Lori, I’m coming over in a few minutes with the new plumber. I just wanted to see if you were home.”

Message 2: “He can’t seem to find anything wrong. He sees the damage, but can’t find the source. We’re going to check the apartments above and below you.”

Message 3: “We’re on our way back to your apartment. There’s only minor damage in the apartments above and below you. Are you there?”

Message 4: “This doesn’t look good. He’s thinking he may need to take out more of the wall to get to the pipes. I’ll keep you updated.”

Message 5: “I don’t know if you’ll get this message first or see the holes in your ceiling first. We had to cut out portions of your ceiling. The plumber can’t fix anything until you physically see water dripping. Let me know if you see anything.”

Of course, I haven’t seen anything since the ceiling was decimated. The smell is still present; the wall (what remains) is still damp. But no water spouting forth from any of the exposed pipes. I wonder how long the waiting game will last?

I somewhat laugh about being kicked off the jury. Yes, I wanted it too badly. As one of my lawyer friends said, “You were totally Miss Goody Goody Juror Two Shoes.” Okay, maybe I was. But I found it quite disconcerting that everyone who had more than a college degree was dismissed from the jury. The doctor. The MBA. The several of us with Master’s degrees. One by one we were dismissed, all by the defense. What type of jurors were they looking for?

I wanted it so badly. So, so, so, so badly. I finally had been called for jury duty.

I arrived at the courthouse, questionnaire completed, eager to serve. I was one of the first called, beckoned to room 303. Luck of all luck, fate of all fates, I was the original juror number 9. I sat in the chair, so excited. Finally, at 36 years of age, I was honored, I was privileged, to serve on a jury. Having lived in countries where the justice system is perceived to be less than fair, I looked forward to participating in our system, flawed as it may be.

The case was one where a young man solicited an undercover policewoman for sexual favors. Bad choice, dude.

Each of us, all 18, stated our name, our neighborhood, how long we’ve resided in San Francisco, our profession, whether we’ve ever served on a jury before. The people’s lawyer began the questioning. “How do you feel about prostitution?” Not surprisingly, many jurors stated they felt it should be legal. This is San Francisco after all.

The defense began. “What are your thoughts about police officers working undercover?” Juror after juror responded. Finally, she called on me.

“Well. It really doesn’t matter my thoughts about police officers working undercover. What matters is, were they working within the limits of the law? If so, I support their actions. If the police officers were merely providing an environment in which a crime *could* take place, and the individual in question *chose* to solicit for prostitution, which we have established is currently illegal, then the individual should take responsibility for his actions, no matter what the environmental circumstances were. Having said that, however, I absolutely understand that our justice system is based on the premise that an individual is presumed innocent until proven guilty and I can absolutely be a fair and impartial juror in this case. Thank you.”

The defense looked at each other, then turned to the judge.

“We’d like the court to thank and dismiss juror #9.”

Nooooooooo…..

He surprised me with tickets to the opera. Tickets to La Grande Macabre. I had never heard of it, but I was excited nonetheless. A night at the opera! Dressing up! Going out! Good music! Good story! Good times!

He arrived earlier than expected. I was still cleaning the apartment. “Just let me finish vacuuming, then I’ll stop and hang out with you,” I offered.

“No need to stop. Go ahead and finish what you need to. That way, you really will feel like Cinderella later tonight when you dress up for the ball.”

Inexplicably, it was one of the sweetest things he’s ever said…